Spirit
by shattered petal
Summary: The Rook has crumbled, defeated in battle but still victorious, standing high despite its mighty death. Miles remains, as the Queen's right hand. Suddenly he is her blade.


**Title**: Spirit  
><strong>Genres<strong>: Hurt/Comfort  
><strong>Rating<strong>: K+  
><strong>Couple<strong>: Slight Miles/Olivier  
><strong>Set<strong>: After The Promised Day

* * *

><p>He feels like a ghost, souring through the air, others oblivious to his movements while his mind races with positivities. The man's body is empty, as if a large hand has ripped his flesh apart and pulled at his insides –– painfully. It needs to be fulfilled again, but he's clueless, aimlessly searching for a cure.<p>

Funny. No one cares about his presence for once. He is no longer "unusual" or "peculiar". He is just human. How long it took society to open their eyes and _see_. Should he stab back? Should he shove their insecurities in their faces? It is sickening they only avoid his gaze when their lives are pushed to the limit. They only care for themselves and their "kind".

Those who _do_ notice him, whenever, wherever, are what keeps his heart beating.

Then he's running. Dashing. Sprinting through the city; suddenly pulled towards something, like a magnet. He knows who it is which only encourages his limbs to move faster, make them ache, yet his emotions boil and bubble, before bursting. _He doesn't want to stop. He never wants to stop_.

Ironic: the person he runs for is the person who should turn away. However she doesn't frown at _him_, but at society. It's an admirable quality, a constant memory he holds for her. Sad. She is the first to open her eyes. And is never acknowledged.

Like himself.

'Major Miles.' He confirms his name at the door. The butler –– flustered and old –– nods, before stepping aside, recognising the name. He knows what this specimen is, and how it is accepted in such polished grounds. Again: ironic. She's expecting him, apparently, but he knows. He knows everything she expects before they are spoken.

The steps are like a barrier. Long and never ending. He climbs relentlessly, eager. _He's always been eager_. _Heroic fool_.

They meet together, almost colliding into the other. Sharp and sudden –– like how they first met count. Unpleasant but fascinating. Strange how fate wanted who to be placed with. Did it expect the man to still be placed beside her after all these years? At once he salutes, but its meaning is lost. Because, at the moment, their ranks are rotten. Distinguished by the dried blood across her uniform and pale skin.

'I thought you said you had a few _light_ grazes, ma'am.'

She eyes him, sharp pupils melting _very_ slowly. He notices and his muscles tense, noticing something is wrong. Of course there's something wrong, yes, but... this "wrong" is different. It is attacking her continuously, like an illness. Fatal to the wall she holds strong. Black rings hang below her eyes. Almost demonic.

The sling catches his heart. _She lied over the phone_. Is the world so perfect she cannot allow her own troubles to corrupt it?

Miles absorbs the pain in an instant, and his body shudders. _She looks so close to death_. He dreads to wonder if death had snatched her before anyone came to her aid. _I should have been there..._ As a Knight (_her_ Knight), the man should have looked over her shoulder, a gun firm in grip, ready to pounce.

_I've failed. Again._

It's frightening how well they know each other. Just from the tiniest gesture, she _knows_ he's in agony, his insides shattering. The Rook has crumbled, defeated in battle but still victorious, standing high despite its mighty death. Miles remains, as the Queen's right hand.

The man continues to shiver in fear. Suddenly he is responsible. Suddenly he is her blade.

Miles meets her gaze and his heart is sliced in two. He's exhausted, but recovering freakishly fast. She holds his shoulder; Miles leans in and, for a moment, she is his crutch. Their embrace is not awkward, but its unusual. She's on her tiptoes, arms around his back, chin forced upwards by his heavy self, whilst he struggles to keep her pressed against him, blood dripping down his clean, blue cotton. A horrific contrast against hers. The gargoyle is perfect; the angel is ripped.

He breathes slowly. She feels his heartbeat against her own. Silence falls between them, and then she shudders with him, afraid too. Because she knows this man –– this creature –– will destroy his armour and unleash his power as a King. A ruler.

Olivier has borne a monster of peace.


End file.
